Just a Kitchen Boy
by V musicka
Summary: A kitchen boy meets a grand duchess for the first time - the night before the attack on the royal family. Dimitri learns what a girl actually is, Anastasia learns a lesson, and both learn how to dance. Anastasia x Dimitri


Hello, all.

Welcome to my first story! (Published story, anyway; I have about a thousand unfinished ones on the backburner, so get ready!) It's an honor to be able to finally join and share my talents with you.

Okay, so I have to admit, this is pretty much a test story meant to get myself acclimated to the way things work around here (I'm such a n00bster... I finally figured out how to add author's notes and stuff... -_-;). Still, a whole lot of effort went into this, so enjoy it thoroughly!

I love Anastasia. A lot. I watched it every day for, like, two weeks after I saw it for the first time about six months ago. I have sheet music. I have the DVD. This is a fabulous movie. Dimitri and Anya make a similarly fabulous couple. So, I wondered: what if they had met before the night of Rasputin's attack on the palace? But, really: eight-year-old Anya. Nine-year-old Dimitri. Fighting. Learning to dance. Cuteness!

Vlad's in here, too -- I had this idea forever that Vlad was the head chef of the Imperial Palace (at the beginning of the movie, this bald character guy grabs Dimitri and drags him out of the ballroom, and I initially thought that this was a younger Vlad). I thought that this added more depth to Dimitri's and Vlad's relationship, and even though it's not canon, Vlad is the Imperial Chef in this rendering. W00t.

Have fun and stay beautiful!

- V

**Warnings: **none

**Disclaimer: **If I owned _Anastasia... _yeah. Fail. So I don't. Don Bluth and Gary Goldman do. They beast the planet. (Thank you, guys!!)

Here we go...

**

* * *

**

**Just a Kitchen Boy**

"Dimitri!" roared Vladimir from down the dark, curtained corridor. "For ze last time, you – belong – in – ze – _kitchens_!"

Dimitri scrambled around the corner and whirled, fumbling for the dratted, grease-slick doorknob, tripping over his trailing, oversized pant legs. He shut the door as quietly as he could and slumped against it with a sigh of relief, slicking back his sweaty hair – only to have it drift into his face again. He blew at it irritably and, at the distant, muffled sound of his master's snarl of rage, leaped up, sprang for the nearest trestle table, and curled himself under it.

He could hear the Imperial cook's boots stomping – _clunk, clunk, clunk_ – against the stone floor, coming nearer, nearer to the room where Dimitri hid…

"Sheesh," he muttered, stifling his own voice against his shirt sleeve, covering his head with his other arm. "_One_ croissant and he wants to kill me. Doesn't even know for sure it was me!" He screwed up his face in the orange-brown light of the small fire flickering under the enormous, potbellied cauldron and mimicked his bald master's stiff Russian accent. "_Im_port_ed from France, zey vere_! _Courtesy of ze Premier's cook 'imself_! Pssh!"

"_Di-mi-triii_!"

He gasped, eyes wide, and hid his face swiftly behind his arms.

_Clunk, clunk, clunk…_

"I swear, boy," growled the cook from the corridor – he couldn't be three paces from the door. "Ven I get my 'ands on you, you'll be working from _dawn_ until _dusk_ in ze _butchery_ vith _no supper_ for ze rest of your _life_!"

_SLAM_! Dimitri jumped and cracked his head on the bottom of the trestle table as Vladimir struck the outside wall, rattling an entire cabinet full of china bowls across the wooden, fire-lit room from Dimitri.

Gritting his teeth in pain and clutching his head, Dimitri crouched helplessly as Vladimir advanced, coming nearer to the door – he could hear the cook's heavy, furious breathing through the wall…

And, by some miracle, the clunking boots and Vladimir's huffing and puffing bypassed the door and sounded right behind Dimitri's head – and then moved on, down the corridor, receding along with the cook's bitter mutterings and breathy threats.

Dimitri waited – _five, four, three, two_ – and then crawled slowly out from underneath the table.

"Ow," he muttered, rising to his knees and rubbing the sore spot on his crown. Then he lowered his hands, smirked, and twisted around to stick his tongue out in the direction that Vladimir had stomped. "Ha! Grouchy old man – I showed you! I'll have a snack _whenever I want_!" Then he stood, puffed out his chest, swung his arms, and marched to the door, grinning proudly and pulling the crumbling croissant from his trouser pocket, all the while listening carefully for-

A knock on the door.

Biting back an oath, Dimitri stuffed the croissant back in his pocket and ran past the table, stumbling over his trouser legs, searching for a better hiding spot – not the counter, all open – cabinets too small, wouldn't shut properly – obviously not the big cauldron, all full of bubbling, forgotten soup – not the cupboards, not the stacked chairs, not the other tables, not –

The doorknob turned cautiously.

Dimitri froze, heart pounding, in the middle of the room, turned on the spot. _Oh no, oh no, oh no, _if Vladimir had snuck back on his tiptoes or if a maid was coming, then he was –

The door creaked slowly, slowly open.

Throwing caution to the winds, Dimitri snuck toward the door at a crouch, tense, waiting for _just_ the right moment –

The door was pushed open all the way and a shadow slunk into the room, cast by the torches in the corridor and flung to and fro by the cauldron fire inside.

Dimitri burst into a run, squeezing his eyes shut and ducking his head to pass under the tall, adult arm pushing open the door – only to crash headlong into something much smaller, softer, and angrier than he'd anticipated.

"Aaaahh!"

He fell and sprawled into the corridor, tangled wildly with –

After several painfully loud seconds of kicking, pushing, and struggling, the person underneath him gave a wild shove followed by a well-aimed, backhanded slap to his cheek. He cried out and went sprawling to the side, rubbing his cheek and his sore stomach where he'd been punched at least twice, before he remembered Vladimir and scrambled to his feet, trying to decide which way to run.

"Stop!" shrilled a soprano voice, and the one word was crammed with so much command he froze where he stood and turned slowly to look at his unfortunate victim.

Kneeling dignifiedly in the dancing light of a torch was the most beautiful girl Dimitri had ever seen.

His mouth fell open, his eyes glittering wide and brown in the shadowy light of the stone corridor, and said nothing as she glared viciously at him with ice-blue eyes hidden behind a disheveled mass of flaming, wildly curly hair that fell halfway down her back. Her skin was ivory, her small but plump lips pursed in upset, her arms crossed over her narrow, heaving chest. She wore wide-sleeved, light blue pajamas, all rumpled and pulled out of place from their fight, and as he stared at her, she plucked with great importance at the clothing, trying to right it on her rather scrawny frame.

"What did you do that for?" she demanded, scowling as she stood. She was barefoot. "Running out and scaring me like that? So mean! Then _fighting_ me? I should call someone and-"

In that instant, Dimitri returned to himself and lurched across the space between them to clap a hand over her mouth.

"Sshhh, don't do that, don't do that; bad idea!" He seized her shoulder to keep her from pulling away and tightened the hand over her mouth to cover her screech of anger. She struggled briefly, fiercely, and then suddenly socked him in the stomach.

He fell back with a great release of breath, glaring.

She shook her hair out of her face and advanced on him, eyes glinting with fury. "Who do you think you-"

"Dimitri," he gasped, massaging his stomach, pushing his hair wearily out of his face. "The kitchen boy, actually."

She paused. Her face cleared and an expression of pure curiosity won out over anger, her porcelain brow puckering. "Kitchen boy?" she questioned, cocking her head, gazing down at him where he lay curled at her feet.

"Right," he said, getting painfully to his feet. "So – so I've gotta go, I'm really busy, I'm sorry about knocking you down, and-"

"_Who is zere_?" growled a voice from all the way down at the end of the dark corridor. "Dimitri? Come here right _now_!"

The pretty girl whirled, a hand to her mouth, eyes wide.

Dimitri groaned.

"Nice knowing you," he muttered, "but you better run."

_Clunk, clunk, clunk._

They were out of the torchlight, but Vladimir was coming fast.

Dimitri turned to run, only to have the girl catch his wrist. He tried desperately to twist out of her grip, but her hold was like iron.

"Hey!" he hissed. "Let me go! _Dimitri _will be a new minced dish on the menu tomorrow if you don't-"

She clamped a hand over his own mouth and turned her head to scowl at him again, her eyes glinting, glinting like icy jewels in the dark. She removed the hand to put a silent finger to her lips, and then suddenly whirled and ran back into the room with the soup cauldron, dragging Dimitri behind her. Their shadows leaped like dancers' in the shaft of light cast through the open door, and Vladimir cried out at seeing the elongated shapes; he began to run.

Inside the orange-lit room, the girl flung him under the now-familiar trestle table and slid wildly in beside him, crushing him back against the wall. They huddled together, covering their heads with their arms; he looked and she was chewing her bottom lip, struggling to hold back her laughter.

"It's not _funny_!" he hissed, scraping his hair out of his eyes, scowling as her shoulders began to shake under her thick red hair. "I swear, if he catches me, he really will-"

And in a flurry of _clunking_ and huffing and puffing, Vladimir the Imperial cook charged into the room, beating the head of an extra-wide spatula against one meaty palm. His bald pate – so far away from their point of view – glimmered in the firelight; his dark goatee glittered with beads of sweat.

"Dimitri," he muttered. He began prowling the room at a crouch, turning sharply here and there to peer into crevices, opening cupboards, peeking into the boiling cauldron, sniffing like a hunting wolf. "Dimitri, boy, I know you are in here – come out now, and you vill not 'ave to miss supper tomorrow, hmm? Come on, I 'ave 'ad enough of zis – come out and apologize to your master!"

Now he was looking under all the trestle tables, and he was coming closer and closer to theirs.

Dimitri sighed, gathered his knees underneath him. Like a hero, he would emerge from under the table, making sure the girl didn't pop up with him. He'd take the punishment like a man – and demand her compensation later.

After all, if she hadn't gotten in his way, he wouldn't have-

A thin, blue-clothed arm shot out in front of him, pushed him back. He stared in shock as the girl scrambled quickly past him and crawled out from under the table, rising to her feet before the stunned cook's eyes, his spatula frozen mid-beat in the air near his head, his teeth bared in a shocked, comical grimace.

The girl clasped her hands behind her back and hung her head – the picture of shame.

Dimitri, through his shock (and slightly damaged pride), smirked slowly in reluctant admiration.

Vladimir's eyes popped. "Y-Y-Your Majesty?"

Dimitri's mouth fell open again.

The girl lifted her head, curls spilling over her shoulders, a crooked, guilty smile curling her fair cheek. "Hi, Vladimir. Nice night, huh?" Her voice lilted in a high, sweet soprano.

"Ah… y-yes, Your Majesty, but… _vat are you doing_? You are supposed to be in bed. It's very late!" He placed his hands on his hips, spatula protruding from his fist at an odd angle.

The girl turned her head sadly. "I know, Vladimir, but I couldn't sleep and I just wanted a snack. Really. I wasn't looking for any trouble, I promise." She lifted her face hopefully.

Vladimir's attempt at a stern expression crumbled in an instant, and with a start and a toothy grin, hid the spatula behind his back. "Of course I believe you, Your Majesty, of course! You are certainly a fresher sight zan 'oo I vas expecting, miss, is all, of course you are not in trouble vith me. But _now_, miss, you must be getting back to bed."

"Yes, Vladimir. I'm sorry if I got you in trouble, sneaking around like that."

"Of _course_ not, Your Majesty, and please, allow me to escort you…"

The girl giggled and Vladimir laughed as he bent to slip his huge, muscular arm through her comparably twiggy one, leading her toward the door.

Under the trestle table, Dimitri exhaled for the first time, clapping a relieved hand over his face.

"Oh, wait," simpered the girl in the doorframe, and Dimitri froze solid. "Who did you think I was, Vladimir? When you first came down?"

The Imperial cook chuckled nervously. "Oh, Your Majesty, I just thought you were one of ze kitchen boys who vorks down here. He is alvays getting into trouble, see, and I am so sorry, I just assumed-"

"It's okay, Vladimir. He sounds difficult. Dimitri, yes?"

"Yes. He is an absolute imp, Your Majesty."

Dimitri blushed and glared, and the girl chuckled.

"Oh, wait, Your Majesty," said Vladimir suddenly, and before Dimitri's stunned eyes, reached into the pocket of his white apron and pulled out a beautiful, fresh croissant – one of the very same that Dimitri had snagged from the pastry kitchen.

That Vladimir was ready to _kill him_ for.

"You mentioned a snack, miss," said the Imperial cook, passing her the sweetbread with a warm chuckle. "I couldn't bear to send you to bed vithout _some_zing."

"_Thank_ you, Vladimir," said the girl, and with a huge grin, her blue eyes sparkling, she whirled and threw her arms around the huge man's waist.

Dimitri gagged.

Soon, the girl and Vladimir had finally left the room; Dimitri could hear them talking good-naturedly all the way down the corridor.

He scowled, head throbbing, stomach aching, cheek stinging; insides squirming at the thought of being indebted to a scrawny, hotheaded little girl like _that._

"_Your Majesty_… ugh!"

After a short while, he deemed it safe enough to crawl out from under the trestle table. He brushed his trousers off and plucked at his shift, pushed at his hopeless hair. He stopped soon enough, straightened, crossed his arms, and then drew the crushed, crumbling croissant from his trouser pocket.

He glared at it.

"Girls," he huffed in declaration, and decided that that very nicely summed up his situation when he heard the butterfly pattering of bare feet on stone coming from the corridor. He looked up just in time to see the girl skitter to a stop in the doorframe, her eyes wide and bright and her cheeks flushed with the energy of her exercise.

Dimitri just frowned at her. There was no sound except for the gentle hissing of the bubbling cauldron.

She huffed and pulled at her collar, her eyebrows lifting regally. "What's the matter?" she demanded, hands on her hips. "Aren't you going to thank me or – or anything?"

Dimitri rolled his eyes and, without missing a beat, swept her a bow, the demolished croissant fluttering in one hand. "Of _course_, Your Majesty – my hand, of course, is yours. As is my foot, of course, my right toe, my left nostril – also, of course – my smallest elbow, my-"

She gave a cry of indignation, stamping one foot. "At first, I wasn't going to believe that you were an _imp_, but seeing as I just saved you from a thrashing, and you treating me like this-"

"So who are you, anyway?" Dimitri interrupted easily, smirking, hair in his face, leaning toward her. She wrinkled her nose and leaned back – a flash of justified pleasure burned through him when he saw he was taller than her. "The pampered daughter of the Baron of Moscow? The youngest cousin of the Duchess of Poland?"

Her eyes opened wide. "You don't know who I _am_?"

Dimitri shrugged, picked idly at the croissant. "I'm not allowed upstairs much, Your Maj – I am a kitchen boy, after all."

The girl sighed and knuckled her forehead. He paused in his tearing apart of his ruined pastry to see how her expression relaxed, her lips curving into a smile –

Oh, she was pretty…

"Well…" she murmured. Then she looked up, eyes bright, hair bouncing, and approached at a pace that made him back up several, eyeing her hands warily and remembering with embarrassment the painful ache in his stomach. She rolled her eyes, smiled, and extended her hand just as he bumped into the trestle table and threatened to topple onto it. "Well, Dimitri the Kitchen Boy – pleased to meet you. My name is-" She paused, hesitated, and then leaned over to rather forcefully take his hand and shake it. "My name is Anastasia."

Dimitri felt the hand she was still holding go limp. He gaped down at her and suddenly felt like a naughty little boy sticking his hand into a flaming oven. The girl saw his expression and her face melted into a look of such dejection the shadows in the room lengthened; she let his hand drop and his arm swung listlessly at his side.

"I'm – I'm sorry, I guess," she sighed, turning. "I must be too important to talk to you or – or something…"

"_Grand Duchess_?" Dimitri whispered through the fog in his mind. The girl, her back to him now, nodded. "Princess Anastasia Nikolaevna Romanova? Your – Your _Majesty_, I thought, I didn't know, I – I _knocked you down_!" Then he pointed at her in sheer shock. "You _punched_ me!"

"Good night, Dimitri," she muttered, heading for the door. "It was nice to meet you."

"Wait," he said, lurching forward. "Stop. Stop, stop, stop, stop-" He caught her wrist – her pajamas were soft, but not as soft as her skin – and drew her back into the room. She turned to face him with crossed arms, lowered face. He sighed. "For one thing, Your Majesty, I am not too important to talk to you."

She looked up at his turn of phrase and smiled slowly. "No?" she asked.

"_I_ don't think so. So where'd you learn to punch like that?"

________________________________________________________________

"So how old did you say you were?" Dimitri asked, leaning back against the wall where he sat in the corridor just outside the room with the bubbling cauldron.

"Just eight." Princess Anastasia sat across from him, toying with the lace trimming her pajama sleeves. "And you?"

He grinned in triumph. "Nine."

She rolled her eyes, giggling. "And you still think you're not too important to talk to me?"

Dimitri stretched happily, folded his hands behind his head. "Not if you don't think so, Your Highness."

Princess Anastasia laughed again and he tried not to pay too much attention to how she was watching him closely, curiously from across the corridor.

"So… so it's okay if we just… talk?" she asked in her birdlike chirrup, surprisingly nervous; she played with a lock of her unruly hair.

Dimitri blinked curiously, watching her in turn, curled in on herself in her sky blue pajamas, hair pulled back unsuccessfully with a bow, her huge, blue eyes lowered. "Sure. Why are you asking?"

She shrugged. "I dunno – Daddy doesn't let me talk to servants-" He winced instinctively at the word. "-all that much, or come downstairs. I guess I've never actually spoken to a boy my age or to any of you servants before."

"Well, that's good, 'cause I've never talked to a princess before."

Anastasia smiled gently and yawned a little. Dimitri wondered idly just how late it was. "So where exactly _are_ we?" she asked. "Do you know?"

Dimitri twisted to stick his head into the room, which was now stiflingly hot and full of thin steam. "I guess this is the soup kitchen, and that stuff in the cauldron's supposed to brew overnight… Hey, if you've never been down here, then how did you end up here, of all places?"

"I woke up 'cause I heard Vladimir shouting. I came downstairs because I was curious, and I got lost."

Dimitri blushed and quickly grew fascinated with his left knee. "Sorry I knocked you down. And fought you. And said all that rude stuff. I didn't hurt you when we fought, did we?"

Anastasia sighed deeply. "No, you didn't hurt me. If you still didn't know I was the princess, you wouldn't be sorry."

Dimitri frowned. "What do you mean?"

"Nothing. And I'm sorry I hit you – oh, fine, I'm sorry I hit you all _three_ times. And yelled at you. Sorry."

"It's fine. Didn't hurt, anyway, I didn't feel a thing."

She giggled. "Whatever you say. So how come _you're_ down here, then?"

Dimitri scrubbed fruitlessly at his hair, but it just fell into his face again. "I, uh, got in trouble with Master Vladimir earlier today and he took away my supper, so-"

Anastasia gasped and her hands flew to her mouth. "How cruel! He's _allowed_ to do that?"

Dimitri cocked an eyebrow and leaned away from her a little. "Uh… well, yeah."

"But you must be so hungry! Oh, I'll have to talk to him tomorrow after-"

Dimitri laughed and held up a hand. "Hey, don't do that, there's no point. Thanks, though, for… Anyway. So I snuck out of my room and broke into the pastry kitchen to get something to eat, and I stole this-" He gestured at the pulverized croissant in his lap. "-from the oven, and I didn't know Vladimir was awake and checking on all the preparations for the big feast tomorrow, and he sort of… caught me. Almost. I get into trouble all the time, so he just assumed it was me."

"So you ran down here into the soup kitchen."

"Right."

"Do _all_ servant boys have to get into trouble _all_ the time?"

Dimitri laughed. "Who told you that?"

Anastasia shrugged, bashful. "Daddy. It's why he says I shouldn't talk to servants."

"Well, then, before Vladimir finds out you snuck out and you get into trouble because of this, too, we should go to bed."

He began to stand up, but Anastasia leaped to her feet, hands clasped in front of her, brow crumpled. "No, Dimitri, please wait!" He frowned and sat down slowly, but she remained standing. "See, this is the first time I've ever been able to sneak out – the guard to my room fell asleep. I'll never get another chance to come down here, least of all talk to you. This is too much fun." She rolled her eyes and smoothed her pajamas. "I'll probably get caught trying to sneak back _into_ my room anyway, so… I don't want to go back yet. Please?"

Dimitri held up his hands. "You don't have to ask me, Your Highness."

Relieved, she sat down again. Dimitri felt a flush of pleasure at her bright smile – directed solely at _him_, where only _he _could see, and no one else. Him – a kitchen boy!

"Hey," she said suddenly, and she looked up from adjusting her collar with her biggest, most stunning smile yet. "Dimitri, you should come see me at the party tomorrow!"

"What party?"

"You said there was going to be a big feast tomorrow, right? Well, that's what it's for – the party. Daddy and the rest of my family are celebrating the three-hundredth birthday of – uh – our family, I think."

Hope and a strange, feather-light joy unlike any Dimitri had ever felt had been rising slowly in his chest at her excited words, but now the light trembled and he looked away. "Hey, I don't know. Parties… I'll probably be working the kitchens, anyway."

Anastasia bit her lip. "Oh, but you can get away for just a few minutes, can't you?"

"Uh, maybe…"

"But you _have_ to!" In her excitement, Anastasia stood. "There'll be music and beautiful dresses and jewels and _dancing_, Dimitri! And so many people! I'm sure Daddy'll let you stay for a little while, and we can talk and maybe we can _dance_ and-"

Dimitri stood; the hope had faded by now, turned black by realization. He kept his face down, hiding his eyes behind his hair. "Look, Your Highness… I don't think they'll let me come to the party."

Anastasia had her arms raised in an elegant dancing position, her fingers splayed, her chin tilted just so – at his words, she deflated and folded her hands. The glint left her icy blue eyes. "Who won't let you, Dimitri?"

He threw up his hands wearily. "I can't _believe_ you don't know this stuff! Vladimir, your parents, the guests, all the maids, the other servants – _everyone_, Your Highness. All of them will make sure that me and all the rest of the poor people don't go to your family's party."

He hadn't realized how angry his tone had become until he saw the princess' head lowered, her eyes watching him cautiously. Her mouth was turned down sadly at the corners; he realized with a sick jolt that he might as well have shouted at her.

"But," she whispered, "_I'd_ let you."

Silence cloaked them, all but for the gentle whispering of the torch flames, the distant bubbling of the cauldron.

Dimitri hung his head – if only she could just get angry at him again instead of looking so… sad!

He walked slowly until he stood right in front of her, but she didn't look up at him.

"Your Highness," he murmured down at her, "it's always been that way. Servants don't mingle with royalty, like you. That's why we've never met each other or anything. It just has to be that way – I don't know why."

She looked up at him and started at seeing him so near; she took a step back. "So… How long have you been working in the kitchens? What do you do that makes you a servant, anyway?"

He smiled, but the sadness hadn't left her. "I help cook sometimes, but I'm not allowed in the main, important kitchens, like the pastry one or the fish one or anything. Mostly I wash and carry around dishes and serve smaller groups of visitors to the Imperial palace. Really, I'm just a serving boy." He paused, waited for her to say something, but then remembered her other question. "I've been in the kitchens for as long as I can remember, Your Highness. My parents… They were servants, too, worked in the kitchen. They died when I was really little. After I was orphaned, Vladimir, instead of kicking me out into the streets like he should've, kept me on as a kitchen boy – I guess I owe him a lot for that, huh?"

He grinned, trying to be cheerful, but Anastasia was even more sad now at hearing his story. "I'm so sorry about your parents, Dimitri," she muttered. "I didn't know. I've always just… _known_ that my parents were with me, so…"

Dimitri shrugged uncomfortably. "It's all right, Your Highness. I remember them, but only a little."

They fell silent and looked at everywhere but at each other. Him, overwhelmed at what he'd disclosed to the princess of all Russia; her, overwhelmed at all she was learning about her world from a simple servant.

She grinned up at him. "Dimitri?"

He quirked his brows. "Yeah?"

"You know…" Suddenly unbearably shy, she hid her face, as red as her hair but concealed by the dark corridor, by looking down. She smiled almost mischievously and Dimitri struggled to swallow a mysterious lump that had suddenly appeared in his throat. "Daddy'll probably want me to dance at the party tomorrow, and… well, look, it's getting later, and morning's probably coming…"

Dimitri blinked and looked around. She was right; as he watched, the tiniest touch of blue morning light was spilling down a stairwell farther down the corridor.

"I think I need to practice," said Anastasia in a rush.

Dimitri, distracted, blinked down at her and scratched the back of his head. "Practice what?"

She cuffed him in the chest. "_Dancing_, dummy! I don't want to look stupid in front of everyone!"

"What do you want _me_ to do about it? Hum? I can hum!"

She sighed and grabbed his hands, backing him out into the middle of the corridor, into the torchlight. "No, you have to help me dance! I know how-"

"So do I," he muttered, wounded.

"-so you'll be fine. Just help me, all right?"

She let go of his hands and looked up at him expectantly.

He sighed, defeated, and smiled. "All right. I'm… I'm not very good."

They both raised their hands at once and hesitated. They both laughed embarrassedly and moved their hands jerkily around in front of each other, trying to figure out where to place them. Anastasia finally decided on his chest and Dimitri rested his hands awkwardly on her shoulders.

They waited.

"Um…" Anastasia shrugged. "Music?"

"What, humming and dancing at the same time? Not happening."

She glared and he winced; the memory of her punch just wouldn't fade. "Let's just pretend, okay?" he urged, not wanting to reveal his abysmal pitch. "Imagine there's music."

Anastasia shrugged, playing along. "A waltz."

"Right. A waltz." He paused, frowned. "Erm… what's a waltz?"

She sighed and rolled her eyes. "I can't _believe_ you don't know these things! Don't worry, I'll show you. Okay, there's violins and cellos and all kinds of music playing… And…" Her hands slid down his front, making him swallow, and she stepped back suddenly.

"Hey," he protested, moving after her. "I thought we were going to-"

"We _are_. Be patient, sheesh. But first, you have to bow-"

She waited, hands on hips, gaze leveled sternly, until he complied – sweepingly.

"And I have to curtsy." She bobbed him one, lifting an imaginary skirt with her fingertips, and brushed her hair over her shoulders. Then she moved toward him and he reached for her shoulders.

"Now," she said, resting her hands on his chest again, "we dance."

The music was already playing in Dimitri's mind and he hastened to begin; he tugged suddenly on her shoulders and they stumbled to the right, then careened backward, then spun, and finally Dimitri crashed into the wall and nearly dislodged a torch from its bracket.

Anastasia, dizzy, giggled uncontrollably, sagging against his chest as he struggled to catch his breath. Finally, they pulled themselves upright and reset themselves in the middle of the corridor.

"You have to _count_," Anastasia laughed. "Like this – _one _two three_, one _two three_, one_ two three-" She swayed her hips and shifted her feet to the rhythm, a low, drifting lilt. "And _you _have to lead!"

Dimitri blanched, taken aback. "What? Why me?"

"Because boys do the leading! That's how it works!"

"I don't even know what we're doing!"

She hit his chest again, blue eyes sparkling up at him. He found himself agreeing even before she made the demand. "Just try, okay? Help me."

So he sighed, rested his hands on her shoulders, and with her, counted aloud for a few bars before they reluctantly swayed into stumbling movement. She stepped on his feet so many times he wondered if his would ever recover as they wove a ragged pattern down the corridor, back and forth, sideways and backwards and wrongways until she shook her head dizzily and he bumped into the wall three times. Soon, however, they realized with some shock that they actually had a firm rhythm going, and in the end, they stumbled in a slow circle around the ring of torchlight, using it as a guide, spinning every once in a while when Dimitri felt brave enough.

He felt strange walking toward her, with her walking backward and away – and yet it felt nice, despite her feet trampling his every other step. Her hands were soft and warm against his chest, through the shift, and with her eyes lowered and glued with strict concentration on their feet, her breath wafted against his neck every once in a while. They were moving in time, and he felt oddly… skilled. And special. She, princess of all Russia, trusted him. No one had ever trusted him with anything before.

A strange, flying sensation swooped through his stomach as she tripped a little and she bumped flush into him, making him feel as though he were falling down a very long, wide, steep, incredibly beautiful, grand staircase.

"You know," he said suddenly as they danced awkwardly and she stepped on his feet again, "it's a good thing you're practicing with me now, 'cause in a few years, you'll have to be doing this for real."

"What d'you mean?" She never took her eyes off their feet.

"I mean, you'll be going to parties and dancing with boys, and they'll like you, so…" He blushed.

"How do you know?" she demanded, eyes still down.

"Well… _I_ like you, so I know they will…"

He watched as everything from her cheeks to her nose to her forehead to her ears went bright red.

"Anyway," he continued hastily, spinning cleverly to keep Anastasia from crashing into the wall, "you know they'll want to marry you, and they'll be wanting to dance with you to know if you want to marry them, too. So you have to get good. At dancing, you know."

"Y-you think?"

"Sure, I mean-" He paused and winced as she trod even more heavily than usual on his feet. "Well, don't _you_ know?"

Still concentrating wholly on their feet, Anastasia responded haltingly. "Well, sort of. Grandmama tries to talk to me about that sometimes – about boys and getting married and stuff – but Daddy always interrupts and tells her to wait a little longer before we talk too much about things like that. Grandmama says he does that because he's afraid of me growing up. He wants to hold onto me as long as he can."

Dimitri couldn't blame him. She stamped on his foot again.

"Anyway, I guess I don't know too much about boys and getting married or anything yet."

Dimitri shrugged. "Just as well, I guess. Sooner or later, though, you'll have to dance with them and impress them. And you'll have to kiss them if you like them and stuff. That's what Vladimir told me, at least." He gulped nervously. "Uh – so what do you think?"

Anastasia wrinkled her nose and looked up at him at last; her eyes were all but shining up at him like ice in moonlight, her hair billowing about her like fire. Her lashes lowered shyly.

"I dunno," she murmured. "I think I'd rather dance with you."

Dimitri stopped dancing and she stumbled into him.

His heart was slamming in his chest; joy flooded him helplessly.

His _feet_ hurt.

He smiled gloopily.

"You _have_ to come see me tomorrow," she whispered urgently. "I don't want to be alone with all the adults. Promise, Dimitri."

He had too little control over his own tongue to correct her again. "'Course. I promise. I'll try to come see you – but you might not see me."

"Just come see me. And try to dance with me? Please?"

"Yeah."

They stood quietly for a time, both smiling at each other, until she let her hands slide off his chest and she slipped out from under his hands.

His face fell as he watched her turn away, toying nervously with her hair. "You have to go?" he sighed.

"Uh-huh." She pointed and he saw the huge patch of light blue coloring the now blue-lit corridor. The torches' fires looked tinny against the coming morning spilling down the stairs.

She turned to him silently, eyes wide. He opened his mouth to say something – _anything_, he had to say _something_ after all that, didn't he? – but she suddenly ran past him, and for a terrible moment he thought she was running out on him, until she dropped to her knees and picked up the croissant Vladimir had given her, wrapped in her handkerchief. She stood, cradling it, and walked back over to him.

With a bright smile, she handed it to him.

"You missed supper," she reminded him laughingly.

He blushed and tucked it carefully into his trouser pocket. Then he gestured over to where the pile of croissant crumbs lay. "Help me with those?"

Together, they gathered the crumbs in their hands and walked back into the soup kitchen room, which was now so hot and steamy they could barely breathe. They threw the crumbs into the nearly-overflowing soup cauldron and ran back into the clear air of the corridor, fanning themselves.

They stood in front of the stairwell, where all the light was pouring from. They looked up at it, unable to believe they'd stayed up so long talking. And yelling. And running. And fighting. And dancing.

Dimitri smiled at that last.

Princess Anastasia turned to him one last time, smiling so hugely he could barely think for himself.

"You promised you'd come see me tomorrow, right?" she demanded. At his nod, she smiled again. "I want to see you again after that, too. Daddy'll let us be together. He has to. After he sees us dance, he will."

"I don't know," said Dimitri smilingly, shrugging. "I'm just a kitchen boy."

They looked at each other; him, tanned, tall, lean, too-long trouser legs that he'd had to roll up in the middle of their dancing to keep from killing them both, the dirty shift, the unruly hair. Her, flowing but wild hair, pale, dressed in the softest, cleanest, prettiest pajamas that fit her just right, her upright stance, her confident smile.

"I really, really liked talking to you, Dimitri," she whispered.

He wasn't sure his heart could take much more of this. "Go," he said, gesturing up the stairwell and touching her waist to guide her. "Someone'll know you're missing soon, you've gotta go!"

Anastasia resisted his push and, without warning, grinned and touched his cheek. He froze.

"You're not just a kitchen boy," she whispered, eyes boring into his, welding him into place. "You're the most interesting person I've ever met. You're better than any other boy that would want to dance with me and marry me or whatever you said."

"You only met me tonight," he reminded her weakly.

She laughed. "Dimitri. I've got to go. Don't worry – I'll protect you from Vladimir if you cause trouble again."

He blushed and smirked against her hand. "Yeah? You're the most interesting princess I've ever met, I guess, so… I'll watch for you."

And before he had time to even faint in shock, Grand Duchess Anastasia of Russia threw her arms around his neck and kissed Dimitri the kitchen boy full on the cheek.

She sprang lightly away from him, red hair flying, blue eyes glittering, laughing and blushing despite herself, and he grinned and watched her run up the stairwell, waving at him and calling to him as she went. His first best friend.

His feet ached. His head hurt. His stomach twinged. He didn't care.

"Goodnight, Dimitri!" she cried, giggling. "See you soon!"

"Goodnight!" he called, but she was gone, rushed up the stairwell to try to beat her slumbering guard to her room. He really, really hoped she made it. He wanted to see her again. And he knew, as he slowly touched the warm, tingling cheek the princess had kissed, that he would see her again. His heart pounded.

"Goodnight, Anastasia," he whispered, and, touching the still-warm croissant in his pocket, smiled and turned to run down the corridor to the servant's quarters. No matter who was watching for him, he'd make it.

After all, he reminded himself; he wasn't _just_ a kitchen boy anymore.

* * *

Sorry; that was long. ;)

Anyway, yay! You made it to the end of my first published fanfiction ever! You my best friend! Have a cyber cookie.

Little Anastasia and Dimitri = Cutest. Evah.

Anyway... my notes go here, right? I don't have much to say, except... please review! (Seriously. Please? O_O) Go ahead and flame me if you feel the need, but if you are unnessecarily profane in any way, then goodbye, and if you're a creeper and you are profane in future stories, then I'm blocking you.

...

Dun-dun-DUN.

Don't worry. I love you all. :D

Stay tuned for more stories. Please leave any suggestions, questions, comments, or yodeling in your REVIEW, because I don't answer PMs or e-mails.

Stay beautiful,

- musicka


End file.
